


The Sour Wolf and his Magic Bitch

by calrissian18



Series: Mating Games [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Because of Reasons, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Stiles is Magic, but not in the normal fandom!magic way, derek doesn't take advantage of the whole 'wish' thing once, derek is hiding out in his skeleton of a house, derek is still socially retarded, everyone's language is atrocious, mostly because i don't think he could ever trust it - even if he came to trust stiles, stiles is a fairy godmother, you know?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU.  Stiles is a <s>fairy godfather</s> Magic Bitch and Derek is a lone wolf.  I don't even.</p><p>This is the (very) long form version of my Challenge 1: First Time/Last Time entry for mating_games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sour Wolf and his Magic Bitch

**Author's Note:**

> For ONCE, I wrote Sterek that wasn't pre- or post-slash. \o/

 

The first time Derek meets Stiles, he considers eating him.  
  
He's skulking around his burnt-out husk of a home when suddenly he's just _there_ on Derek's kitchen counter, saying, "Well, this looks healthy," while he leans over, sniffs at the sink and scrunches up his nose.  There are scorch marks on the metal that Derek hasn’t gotten around to scrubbing out yet.  The boy kicks his feet and hums _Mairzy Doats_ under his breath.  His heel comes down on the cabinet beneath him and it splits, almost instantaneously crumbling into ashes.  
  
Derek's eyes flash red.  The boy on the counter offers him a cringing smile.  And even though he doesn’t smell like _threat_ , Derek still kind of wants to murder him.  He's all fangs and claws as he snarls, "Get out."  
  
The boy’s gaze sashays over to him, looking entirely unimpressed.  "Can't do it, bud,” he says brightly.  He shines his nails on the front of his plaid shirt.  He looks like the world’s weakest lumberjack.  “I'm your wish-fulfilling indentured servant.  Stiles, for short.”  He spreads out his arms as if to say ta-dah!  His face twists up and Derek tamps down on whatever it is inside him that finds that endearing.  “Well, not so much ‘indentured,’ am I?  I’m not getting crap out of this.”  He perks up.  “Want to teach me a trade?  You could show me how to do all the red eye, fangy, growling junk.  I could totally be ferocious.  Roar.”  
  
“Do you _ever_ stop talking?” Derek growls, rubbing angrily at his forehead.  Had this kid really just _said_ ‘roar’ rather than _vocalizing_ a roar?  
  
Stiles shrugs and Derek is not using that name, not even in his head.  It’s not even a name; it’s a combination of nonsense syllables.  "Some people call them fairy godfathers.  I prefer Magic Bitch."  He wiggles his fingers about and slips down off the counter.  "The former makes it sound like I get some kind of choice out of the whole dealie."  He’s barely paying attention to Derek, turning his back on the predator in the room while he rummages through Derek’s fridge.  He pulls out a quarter-full bag of shredded cheese and an apple with a perked brow, as if to say, ‘ _really?_ ’

Derek charges at him only to run claws first into the open fridge.

Stiles – well that didn't last long – says from behind him, leaning against the kitchen island, “That’s not very hospitable.”  He takes a bite out of the apple.

Derek decides he’s hallucinating.  Or still asleep.  Certainly something that will make dealing with Stiles moot.  And the name does sort of work for him; the kid is clearly a combination of nonsense as well.  He stomps off towards his bedroom, growling, "Fuck off," over his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is lounging on his couch when he comes downstairs the next morning.  His shoes are off and he’s pressing his socked feet into the arm.   He’s got a copy of _Teen Beat_ propped up on his stomach and Derek didn’t even think they _made_ that anymore.  He catches a glimpse of the cover and he’s fairly certain Rider Strong is on it.

Derek doesn’t acknowledge him.  He reads in his bedroom and runs in the woods and ignores Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t seem put out by it in the least.  He just wanders around from room to room, fixing the banister on the stairs with a touch of his fingers, lifting the beam out of Laura’s bedroom and slotting it back into place, replacing the floorboards that have rotted away.  Derek never sees him do any of it but he sees the result of his efforts every time he leaves his room.  He's always careful not to do too much.

There are sparks of life throughout this dead thing now.  Derek's not sure how he feels about that.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, he starts to habituate to Stiles’s presence in his life after he stalwartly refuses to fuck off.  In fact, he only gets more persistent.  He sits on a log in the woods while Derek runs, wolfed out and released of any inhibitions.  He’ll nuzzle up to Stiles then, lick his chin, push him off the log and snuffle up under his shirt while Stiles laughs.  Because his wolf is a whore for attention.  It fails to understand that Stiles equals bad, _anyone_ equals bad.  His wolf is a blindly trusting fool.

Derek is hardly so friendly.  He snipes his daily morning greeting: “Get out.”

Stiles hops off the sofa – his unofficial ‘space’ – and grins.  He’s always so stupid _happy_.  He places his thumbs at the corners of Derek’s mouth and twitches it up into a grin.  Derek tries to bite off his fingers.  Stiles is gone in the blink of an eye, standing behind him now.  Fucking fairies.

"You need linens," Stiles says, which is his daily morning greeting - finding something to nitpick.  He knows Derek doesn't leave the woods.  "You're sleeping on a mattress, a lumpy, _soggy_ , bug-infested mattress."  
  
Derek snorts.  "And sheets'll fix that?"  He fills up a glass – Stiles’s doing – with drinkable water from the sink – which is drinkable and devoid of ash residue also due to Stiles.  
  
Stiles shrugs and nudges him with his shoulder.  "It's a start."

 

* * *

 

He pushes Derek out of bed every morning around six.  If Derek doesn’t move immediately then he’ll talk.  And talk.  And talk until he does.  He talks about Derek going into town for _hours upon hours_ because ‘being a lone wolf is the worst cliché the world has to offer, and just because his insides are hollowed out and burned doesn't mean he can't fake it for an hour _._ ’  He _talks at_ Derek for the better part of a month about all the things he _should_ be doing and how pathetic he is and how he's living as if he died too.  
  
Derek's not sure what it means that he lets Stiles get away with talking to him like that.  If it were anyone else, he would’ve eaten them by now.

Eventually, Stiles stops doing things – his little renovations around the house – and Derek finds him frowning a lot now.

Derek's stomach clenches every time he catches sight of it.  He doesn’t like it.  Not at all.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up on his own on Saturday morning, no nattering Stiles pushing at him, and for a second he panics.  He opens his eyes to find Stiles lying next to him, his head propped up on his hand and a frown furrowing his brow.  Derek blinks up at him and swallows.  He’d thought Stiles was _gone_ and it had _terrified_ him.  He’s angry and confused and he can hear Stiles’s voice in his head telling him what he should do and how he should live and to just _get over himself already_ and Derek _should_ want him gone.

He pins Stiles to the bed and growls in his face.  Stiles's honey-colored eyes seem to light up at the challenge.  "You gonna fight me or fuck me there, big guy?" he says and it's cheeky and breathless.  Derek realizes he's hard and pinning Stiles to a mattress that’s clean and smells like them and he _wants_.  
  
Stiles cants his hips up into Derek's, cautiously, as though he expects Derek might rip his throat out for the boldness.  Derek snarls and holds him down with his forearm across Stiles's collarbone.  He pushes up Stiles’s shirt, tangles the hem of it in his claws and lowers his head to flick his tongue out over a dusky nipple.  His eyes lock on Stiles’s face.  He’s pale and gasping and gorgeous and covered in moles and Derek likes it too much.  He pulls down Stiles’s trousers and fucks his face on Stiles's cock like he's angry at the world because he can’t look at him, he can’t let himself fall into this.  He rolls Stiles's balls with his palm while he sucks him off violently, inhaling the musky scent of him and trying not to get addicted to it.  
  
Stiles shoots down his throat and grabs at Derek's dick with sure, confident hands.  And even though he looks like he's sixteen, it's obvious he's not new to this and Derek doesn’t know how he feels about that.  His strokes are expert and Derek hasn't gotten off in _so long_.  It’s embarrassing how quickly he comes but thankfully Stiles doesn’t seem put off by it.  He’s grinning as though he’s never frowned in his life and Derek pushes his thumb into the place between Stiles’s eyebrows where his frown line forms, silently telling it to stay gone.

“Do you do this with—” Derek clears his throat.  “Your other… people,” he says vaguely, “do you usually fuck them?”

Stiles’s smile is soft.  “There are no other people, Derek.  I’m literally made for you.”

Something too warm and uncomfortable and large unfurls in Derek’s chest, spreading out like it means to stay.  “You won’t leave then when I’m… fixed?”

Stiles shakes his head, looking at Derek with such fondness that Derek can’t keep eye contact with him.  “You’re not broken.”  He strokes his hand down Derek’s back.  “You’re stuck but we’ll get you going again.”

Derek lets himself feel hope for the first time in a long time.

 

* * *

  
He and Stiles fuck almost every day after that.

Stiles still harps on him about living like a misanthropic hermit – in fact, he only gets more insistent as time wears on – and their arguments get more toxic the more they twist into each other, and Stiles frowns more and more because he cares about _Derek_ more and more.  Derek starts to _hate_ that look and he takes to slamming the door behind him as he leaves, needing to run in the woods to stop feeling like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin.  Stiles’s jibes get more accurate and he jabs harder at barely healed wounds and Derek lashes out like a caged animal.

“Living like a ghost won’t erase all the others that won't leave here.  You have to start _moving on_.  Your family is _dead_ , Derek.  Your sister is _dead_.  And this is not fucking _living_ ,” Stiles screams at him.  
  
Derek grabs him by the arms, slams him into the wall and snarls into his face, "I _should have_ died, don't you get that?  The fire was my fucking fault!  I fell in love with a psychotic bitch and I killed everyone who ever _loved me_."

Quiet rage simmers on Stiles’s face but his voice is soft and soothing and calm.  It’s the voice that makes Derek’s wolf want to curl up at his feet and nuzzle its snout into his stomach.  “If you really believe that,” Stiles’s lips purse, “if you think _this_ is what your family would want for you, then you really are pathetic.”

Derek’s eyes start to burn and Stiles doesn’t fucking _know_ anything.  Not about Kate or his family or what Derek deserves.  He grips tighter to Stiles’s biceps and some part of Derek _knows_ he’s hurting him but he can’t stop.  “You _can’t_ understand, Stiles, so stop pretending like you know best.  You’re not even a real person.  You’re nothing.  You’re nothing and I don’t need you.”  Derek is shaking so hard he’s afraid he’s going to collapse and he pours all his frustration into Stiles because he’s _there_.   “I never wanted you.  You showed up and you won’t _leave_.  Thank Christ you’re a decent fuck or I’d have got _nothing_ out of having you around.”  
  
Stiles is quiet for a long moment before the rawest expression of hurt blooms over his face and he does that thing where he's just _gone_.

Derek tells himself he doesn't care.  He goes off to bed and tries not to think.

Stiles doesn’t join him.

 

* * *

 

Stiles isn't there when he comes downstairs the next morning.  He doesn't show up that night.  He doesn't come the next day, or the day after.  Derek prowls every inch of his house, destroying things Stiles has fixed in his wake as he imagines the fury he's going to unleash on him when he returns.  _If_ he returns.  And after a week it's becoming pretty clear that's a big if.  
  
He'd been fine on his own, _happy_ being alone, and then Stiles had come along and ruined him for anything else.  He _needed_ him to come back.  He didn’t know how to live in this house without him.

 

* * *

   
Derek gets it in his head that Stiles will come back if he does all the things he's been pestering him about since he first popped up on his kitchen counter.  He goes grocery shopping and doesn't growl at the woman who snatches the last cucumber out from under his hand.  He makes sure to always keep an apple and a bag of shredded cheese in the bottom drawer of his refrigerator.  He’s not sure why, but it feels like a security thing.  The whole kitchen will feel off if either one is missing.

He goes _out_ and tries not to hate every second of it.  He sits in the library and suppresses a grin thinking about the trouble Stiles would have gotten into trying to be _quiet_.  He goes to the movies and doesn't panic when it's crowded and he has to sit next to strangers.  He wonders if Stiles would talk or if he would be rapt in his attention.  Derek thinks he would be happy with either.  He gets linens and he talks to a contractor and it makes his heart hurt to think of tearing it all down but there's a relief there too.

He goes up to bed alone and curls around Stiles’s pillow.  His scent seems to fade faster than a regular human’s.  There’s already barely a trace of him left.

He keeps the couch.  Just in case.

 

* * *

 

Derek’s gone to the coffee shop in town so many times that the woman behind the counter knows his name and he knows hers.  He sits at the same tall table by the window and sips his coffee and reads his book and it’s not even that hard anymore.  He’s been there less than half an hour when a boy in plaid slides into the seat across from him with an unstoppable grin.  Derek looks up and everything in him stutters to a halt and he’s _terrified out of his mind_ because he’s sure to say the wrong thing or scare him off somehow and Stiles _can’t leave_ again.

“I didn’t mean it.  Not any of it,” he blurts out before his brain has even decided to _say things_.  His breath catches and he’s having an impossible time looking into Stiles’s smiling face.  “I—” he swallows it down and tries to speak more slowly.  “I—I want you.  Here.  With me.”

Stiles’s smile widens and he pops one of Derek’s cookies into his mouth.  He nods a bit.  “I know.”  He wipes his fingers on his shirt and Derek is in love with him.

Derek stares down at the table with hooded eyes.  "You left," he accuses.  
  
Stiles hums and takes a sip of Derek's coffee.  Derek doesn’t care.  He’s still staring at Stiles like he expects he’ll disappear at any moment.  "It was the kick in the ass you needed though," Stiles says.  
  
He shifts in his seat and Derek's hand shoots out across the table and grabs onto his wrist.  "Don't.  Leave," he grits out.  
  
Stiles beams at him and curls his fingers around Derek’s.  "Wouldn't dream of it," he says happily.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a good example of the ridiculous that is my brain. So, [wanna boogie](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/)? *waggles eyebrows*


End file.
